


A Glimpse Around the Bend

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 01:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6590884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eric does a favour for Harry and Ryan, and meets his future teammate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glimpse Around the Bend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icecreamsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsnow/gifts).



> I don't know exactly how Tottenham Hotspur operates in terms of time tables and schedules. Each club has its own (albeit similar) structures you only hear about when things go badly. So far, Tottenham under Pochettino haven't had things go badly! YMMV and the rest of it. 
> 
> Beta ain't nuthin' but a letter, you have been warned.

_“The thing about football - the important thing about football - is that it is not just about football.”  
― Terry Pratchett, Unseen Academicals_

 

**Chapter One**

*** 

Tuesdays.

Eric hated Tuesdays. Well, no, not really _hate_ , he just didn’t like them as much as the other days, because Tuesdays were for analytics. Its’ _sole_ saving grace was the fact that you didn’t have to do early morning training, due to Pochettino helpfully arranging the day so that you had training in the afternoons. 

Despite the early hour, the building seemed busy enough, lights aglow in their rooms, even with the doors closed, people in various stages of presentations or note taking seen through glass and chrome. Eric walked past those rooms, turned left, and there, at the end of the passageway, a door with neatly scripted letters: ANALYSIS. 

Taking a breath to settle the jangle of nerves, Eric took a step towards the door. 

The door swung open, and Danny tripped out, folder in hand. “Eric,” he smiled, hand out for a handshake. 

“Danny,” Eric drawled his greeting, voice still thick with sleep and lack of use, since it was still gods ayem in the morning. Six months under Pochettino- yet his regime still felt like six hours- everything still too much and too new at turns. “You’re here too?”

“Yeah,” Danny shook his head ruefully. “We went through some stuff, and now I’m getting ready to meet up with Miguel for one on one in the next twenty. See you later, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Eric nodded, as he moved towards the door, missing the conversation already. “Definitely.”

Mauricio Pochettino and his assistant, Jesús Perez, were already in the analytics room, speaking to each other in Spanish in rapid, low tones. They stood by the raised lectern, Perez’s finger pressed to his lips, his brows beetled from concentration. The analytics room reminded Eric of those lecture rooms you found at high ranking universities; padded chairs slotted under desks in tidy rows. At the front, a raised lectern, with a screen that rivaled some IMAX movie theaters. The room lights still dim, because they were going to go over the games that Eric had played during the week. 

“Eric,” Pochettino walked towards him, hand outstretched, even as he gestured Eric to close the door behind him. “Are you well?”

“Yeah, I’m just...” There was no way Eric was going to say _sleepy_ , not with Pochettino looking at him quizzically, as if trying to find something wrong. It was an open secret around the club that a few of them were playing for their futures; even though Pochettino hadn’t said anything of the sort -as far as he knew- you felt it. 

Meaningful looks exchanged among himself and his assistants. A file on each player mutating from a simple form and accompanied passport picture to bulky dossiers about their stats, their medical histories, their games played on the field, and whatever physical feedback they got from the “sports bros” that everyone had to wear. 

“Just... I’m okay.”

“Good, shall we sit down?” 

Eric hated watching himself, even though the clips of him were overhead, or level focusing on positioning than anything else. The game against Sunderland now on screen, and the running time for his clips about thirty minutes. Pochettino’s post game approach reminded him of his coaches in Portugal, as Eric found himself quizzed on the choices he’d made in the game. No judgement from Pochettino or Perez’s side, nor dictats, just probing questions, about his relationship with Jan, and how he read Hugo’s role in the sticks, and on the line. 

If it hadn’t been a meeting at work with the unasked questions concerning his future, the talk would have had the mood of pleasant football conversation over a meal. 

 

“It says here,” Jesús began, looking up from Eric’s dossier, dark eyes sharp and searching. “That you played midfield at Sporting for a little bit?”

“ _Yea-ahh_ ,” Eric answered, confused. “That was due to an injury to the main DM at the time.”

“And how did you find it?” Pochettino asked, leaning back in his chair, his hand resting on the desk in front of him. His fingers twirling a slender navy pen with the Spurs’ cockerel logo in white, along its barrel. Not too far from his hand, a notepad that had outlines of a football pitch, with notations scribbled along the margins. 

“I- I don’t understand. It was--” Eric’s mind went white, as he tried to find a fluid answer, and curled his fingers into his thighs in order to focus on Pochettino and Perez. “All right, I guess?”

“What were you asked to do?”

“Defend the back-line, be the anchor for the pivot if the other guy went forward. Make passes accordingly. I was the guardian of defense, I guess you could say? I...” Eric’s voice trailed off, because it made no sense what Pochettino was asking him. He was a centre back, moving to right back when needed. 

“Guardian?” Pochettino questioned, only for Jesús to lean over and whisper to him in soft, rapid Spanish, and Pochettino responded, _Vale, vale_. With a curt nod, Jesús pulled away, and leaned back in his own chair. 

“Okay, okay,” Pochettino waved the answer away, his mouth tugged into a half smirk. “How do you find your partnership with Jan?”

“It’s been good. Jan has been very helpful.”

Eric didn’t miss the look that passed between Jesús and Pochettino. On the face of it, it might have just been a passing glance, but Eric had seen that look before. The last time he saw that look, Fabio and Younes had been benched, and were rumoured to have been told that they were to look elsewhere. 

“Thank you,” Jesús said, no less warm than Pochettino, but a bit more formal, as only South Americans could do. Both coaches pushed their chairs away from the table and stood up, signifying the end of the meeting. _All right then_ , Eric thought, as they did a flurry of strong handshakes. As Eric closed the door behind him, wondering what that was _about_.

After training, showers. Showers and then a meal together.

With its high ceilings and cunning use of glass and chrome, it felt more like a formal dining room than a canteen. The dishes in their warming bay, with an array of foods done to an individual dietary plan by the chefs presented in trays nearby, and Eric collected his, noticing that more greens and squash seemed the order of the day on his plate, with the requisite protein. 

Placing his meal on the tray, with a bottle of water, Eric turned, scanning the room for a free table. 

 

The Belgians, loud and jocular, huddled around a table as they shared jokes and swapped dishes between them. They were nice enough, but... 

“Eric! Hey, over here.” 

Ryan waved him over to the table on the far side of the room that had an extra seat free. Harry and Andros were also seated there, eyeing their differing meals. Both seemed to be having fish, at any rate.

“All right ?” Andros greeted as Eric sat down, placing his tray on the table. 

“Yeah,” Eric answered, busying himself unwrapping the serviette from his cutlery. “You?”

“Our new recruit is supposed to be returning to base this week,” Ryan answered around bites of salad. “The lad from MK Dons. Dele Alli, I think.”

At Eric’s frown, Harry nudged him a little. “MK Dons, it’s a League 1 team down in Milton Keynes.”

“Did you go on loan there?” Eric asked, because in the short time he had been in London and around the academy lads, they seemed to be more like jobbing footballers than anything, going anywhere football teams in the lower leagues needed them, with the aim of getting match experience and coming back to their clubs seasoned for first team action. 

“No,” Harry shook his head. “He was on the team that beat Manchester United in the League cup, remember?”

Eric remembered, the red tops had screamed the result with the indignation that only the English newspapers could, the words _humiliating_ and _comprehensive defeat_ coached in various permutations and puns. Even worse, Manchester United had been felled by a club that shouldn’t even have existed in the first place, an _upstart_ of a thing, an example of the English Football Association’s capriciousness at its very worst. 

“He did a brief meet ‘n greet when he came to sign the contract,” Ryan said, before popping a sweet potato fry into his mouth. 

“It was over Christmas break,” Eric begged off, hoping that Ryan wouldn’t start quizzing him on anything. “I couldn't see straight.”

Harry laughed, and it wasn't unkind. Of all the academy lads in the team- and they were all easy to get on with - Harry might have been the easiest going of them all. _Tiggerish_ might have been the perfect word for someone like him, in terms of being unfailingly positive, and determinedly cheerful in spite of the odds. Eric had only ever seen Harry lose his temper once and that had been memorable.

“You did well enough, don’t you worry. But if you can't remember, he met us briefly during training. He seems to be a nice lad.”

“Triple sessions.” Ryan shuddered, and Eric found himself doing the same. They’d never worked so hard, double sessions all the way through- and even after the trouncing they had given Chelsea- he remembered nothing after crashing face down in bed. He had heard that Christmas had been nice.

“So he’s here?”

“Just for rehab,” Harry chirped, “then back to MK Dons to finish the season.”

“This time, you might remember him,” Ryan laughed. “He’s a midfielder. Eighteen.”

Ah, so one for the future then, third tier, League 1. Probably a loan prospect for next year. More concerning Ryan, Nabib, Tom and the rest in terms of fighting for spots on the starting XI for the midfield. Nothing to do with him at all. 

***

“What are you thinking?”

Mauricio Pochettino wanted to laugh, but he didn’t, just contented himself with taking a swig from the bottle of water in his hand. Not that the weather demanded it - February mornings in England dumped a special package of bitter and frigid even when the sun was out- but hydration was always important. 

Seven o’ clock, and they were already on practice field no. 8. 

Field no 8 being one of the sixteen practice fields at Enfield which were manicured, pampered and babied like show dogs for Crufts. Tottenham Hotspur boasted one of the best sports complexes in Europe. Apart from the practice fields, other delights were the state of the art gyms and rehab support, hydrotherapy facilities, as well as the possibility of manipulating the fields so they could replicate the conditions the players may find themselves playing under.

Jesús already knew what he was thinking, Mauricio was sure, but he answered anyway. “We need a defensive midfielder, but Southampton won’t sell.”

“Even if they did,” Jesús answered in Spanish, and yes, although English came easier to Mauricio now, he always relished the ability to speak and listen to Spanish. “We are in England, and you know, the players are expensive. Premier League tax, no?”

“Yes.”

“We are looking abroad, but that won’t be cheap either, we’re an English team, _yes_?”

Mauricio nodded, nothing Jesús said was new, but it felt good to discuss problems and have them out there. 

“Academy?”

“None for what we want,” Jesús said, slipping his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. At 07:00, they had at least forty five minutes to speak before the first players showed up. “At least, not yet.”

“Lamela?” 

“No, he’s not what you want.”

Unperturbed, Mauricio dropped the bottle of water by his foot, and tapped at a nearby ball. Placed his foot on top of the ball, before yanking it back, and the ball bounced on his instep. Slowly, back and forth, from one foot to another, a basic keep up. The action soothing, almost contemplative, as he focused on making the ball dance and hop.

“Dier.”

“Not so mobile.”

“Mobile enough. You can make amends for that. Disciplined, handles the ball well, and clever.”

“If you put him in midfield,” Jesús asked, “won’t you need another defender?”

Mauricio shrugged, focusing on his keep ups from instep to knee, and back again. “Maybe. Maybe not. These are the positions I need.”

“And yet,” Jesús chided gently, “you buy another midfielder.”

“Dele’s quality. You saw it against Manchester United, it’s all there. On top of everything, he plays like one of us. The players we have are quality, but... can be too _English_ at times. He doesn’t have that fault.” 

“Alli’s potential... he might only be that, Mauricio. Potential.”

“True,” Mauricio smiled, cheeks benumbed by the bitter cold, “but we thought the same about Harry.”

***

“What we have here is a _Malleolar injury_ , you’re looking at the -”

Dele leaned over and looked at the line drawing of an ankle, as well as the X-ray of his ankle. In front of him, his _actual_ ankle strapped and cossetted in a protective boot, his crutches tucked beside him in his chair. Anton, one of the physio’s of his now parent club walked him through the process. Earlier this morning, a trip to the hospital for an X-ray, a consult with an orthopedist - and now his own physio assigned to him by the club. 

_I got tackled, and hurt_ , Dele wanted to say, _and now, I just want to get better._ This wasn’t his first injury, so he knew the routine, and answered the questions in the plain, almost monotone notes that the physios preferred to hear. 

__No, no pops, yes, he could stand up - but it hurt. No, first time it happened, honest, and how soon can I get out there?_ _

_“Eight weeks?”_

“If you do your part, yes,” Anton smiled, but more pained than friendly. No matter how much you tried to spin it, injuries and rehab were gash, and they both knew it. 

“The swelling should go down in a couple of days. And then...” 

_Absolute gash._

A brief press of his hand to his forehead, and a heavy exhale of breath, pushing all the ill tempered thoughts to one side- because it really _wasn’t_ Anton’s fault. Dele reached for his crutches- light weight aluminium things with padded bottoms. He waved Anton’s offer of assistance away and stood up. 

“They’re easy when you get your head around it.”

Anton opened his mouth to speak, before a knock on the door put paid to that. With a raised finger signifying an apology and asking for a minute all at once, Anton hurried to the door and half opened it before going, “Ah, Mauricio. Come in, come in.”

Mauricio Pochettino. 

Good thing he’d already been standing up, because half standing, half sitting- no.

They’d already met and spoken to each other a few times before, and so far, with each interaction Pochettino seemed to be a decent guy. From the initial scouting, to the contract signing and posing with the team jersey, but up until now, the MK Dons’ season had been the only thing that Dele focused on. 

Match by match, practice by practice. 

The idea had been not to see Pochettino again until the preseason. Half embarrassed, and half annoyed at himself knowing that he shouldn’t be half embarrassed, Dele roused himself to get into the correct mindset.

“Dele,” Pochettino stepped forward, arm out for a greeting with a handshake, but taking stock of the situation, leaned over and gave Dele’s shoulder a quick squeeze instead. “Your injury--” a pained look stamped his features momentarily. 

“Yeah,” Dele agreed, because there was nothing else to be said. “Bad luck. Business end of a tackle.” 

Another pained expression of sympathy, “How long--?”

“Eight weeks.”

“We will be seeing you around the complex, then. Yes? I-”

Another knock on the door, and although Anton looked momentarily surprised, Pochettino didn’t as he moved to open the door, only to query, on a note of surprise which was interesting. “Eric.”

***

“Hi,” Eric greeted with a wave, as the door opened. Pochettino was surprised, he knew, although his face didn’t show the ripple of curiosity, Pochettino would have been expecting Harry and Ryan.

“Eric, you’re still here.” Pochettino asked, his voice mild as anything, the question about the whereabouts of his missing striker and midfielder unspoken. Yeah, the next time Eric saw Harry and Ryan he was going to--- well, they were going to have words. 

“I- yeah,” Eric rubbed the nape of his neck and shifted his feet. He hoped that Pochettino wouldn’t push and ask him way he was here, and why Harry and Ryan were not.

_Two hours ago_

***

“That’s easy for you to say, H!” Andros yelled, the edges of his words ragged with frustration.

“And-”

“Just leave it,” Andros batted Harry’s hand away, “just leave it! Just-” 

Eric bounced into the changing room, straight from the showers, only pause in mid step. Harry, Ryan and Andros were already dressed in their street clothes. Andros’ face flushed a dull red, anger and frustration vibrating from his body, his energy so intense, it seemed to spark and fizz the air. Harry’s lips pressed so tightly, they formed a grim line. 

“Hey mate,” Ryan hurried away from Harry towards Eric, eyes suspiciously glassy. “Sorry about this.”

“What’s-” Eric started, caught off guard. “Are you lads okay? Is everything -?”

“Yeah,” Ryan tried to smile, and it came off looking so pained, Eric took a step back. The dressing room felt weird, almost as if- “Listen, Alli is supposed to be meeting the physio at one, and the gaffer has asked us to look in, say hi but if you could -”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Eric answered hurriedly, “are you guys okay?”

Ryan did that _almost smile_ again, “We’ll be fine. Just excuse us, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eric answered, as he turned to his locker, reaching for his clothing. “Sure.”

***

After a long, searching look, where Eric felt as if Pochettino might have read his mind and seen the images there; of Andros’ sullen face, Harry and Ryan’s distress, and Eric’s apology for being an emissary on an errand he probably had no business doing, Pochettino clapped his hands together, and said, “All right. I hope you get your favour... _repaid_?”

At Eric’s nod, Pochettino continued, “Ok, we do this quick, so you can get on home.”

Eric stepped into the room. It had been one of those light filled rooms he’d passed a few mornings ago. With recessed overhead lights that gave a soft, yet bright light, that touched on a bookshelf of files, and models of skeletons, and a giant 3-D model of a foot, it was more posh doctor’s office than a meeting room for physios. 

Anton, he knew. Medium height, shaggy hair and dressed in the Spurs uniform they all had to wear. Eric gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement before the customary handshake, before he turned to offer the other person in the room his hand - only to see the dull silver gleam of the lightweight adjustable elbow crutches - that he was leaning heavily on. With both arms. 

Even with his slight slouch, Dele had some height on him, enough for them to see eye to eye if they stood toe to toe. Still, this was awkward. 

“Erm...” Eric started, wondering if Kyle might help him play a prank on Ryan and Harry-- just because-- only for their distressed faces to flash through his mind, and he immediately dismissed it.

“It’s all right,” Dele laughed, clad in trendy sporty clothes, one foot strapped in its over-sized protective boot, the other foot clad in an Adidas trainer. “Business end of a tackle.”

“How long?”

“Eight weeks.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah, I’m hoping to be back before long. About five ga-”

“Eight games,” Anton cut in. The smile that Dele flashed Anton wasn’t the warmest, Eric noted. All teeth, sure, but the glint in his eye told a different story. To be fair to him, no one liked injuries. Injuries made you rusty, posed an innate danger and question to your form. Eric couldn’t blame him for being testy. 

“Okay,” Pochettino looked at his watch, before giving Dele a brisk pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure I’ll see you around, yes? Do you have a way of getting home?”

“Yeah, I made arrangements,” Dele answered, almost polite, but you heard the cheekiness in his voice. “Thank you.”

“You can ask Eric if you need help. He’s capable. Dele. Anton.” 

A chorus of goodbyes as everyone dispersed, Eric jogging halfway to his car when he realised exactly what Harry and Ryan had avoided. 

"’Kin ell!" 

**Chapter two**

“You wot, mate?” Luke laughed, as he draped his hand across Eric’s shoulders as they tromped out to the training field the next morning. 

“Not funny.”

“Because it’s you, mate,” Luke laughed, “you’re a baby sitter.”

“It’s worse, the gaffer wanted Harry.”

“Well, everyone wants H.,” Luke commented in matter of fact tones. “He’s... _Harry_.”

And wasn’t he just? Harry Kane, going from a sub in the Europa cup matches for three months, to a start in the Premier League in mid October and that’s all it took. Six months later, and he was white hot, scoring goals for fun, the press incandescent in their praise, and Harry - well- was still Harry. He took it all in his stride, even when Kyle arranged extra copies of the magazine that he’d been the cover boy on to be on every table, and Harry signing off on each one to the exaggerated cheers and screams by the other lads _en masse_ in the lunchroom. 

Eric understood why Pochettino had wanted Harry to meet Dele. It made a sort of sense, both of them being twin novas in the firmament and all. 

“When does Alli rock up next, then?”

“When the swelling goes down, so a couple of days, I think.”

“I don’t mind sharing the load. I’m not Harry Kane, but I’m a bit of alright.”

Eric sputtered out a laugh, “If you say so- ow!” he rubbed at his forehead, sore from Luke’s flick against his temple. Luke ran off, because as a goalie, he’d be practicing with Hugo and Michel after general warm ups. Eric started swinging his arms briskly, as he set his mind in frame for warm ups. He’d get back at Luke later.

***

Dele hated heel rises, and balance and reach exercises.

Not that he’d had them before, but he had them now, and hated them now, so that counted. 

Under the watchful eye of Anton he did them in the cavernous gym reserved exclusively for the first team, now deserted as the first team spend outside training . Outside, the grass stretched far as the eye could see, like the sea on the horizon; the sky a bright, flat blue, as if it had been printed on heavy stock paper and placed outside like a prop. 

Today, because he was for all intents and purposes a Tottenham player, he was clad in Spurs colours, even down to the UA trainers. 

“I have to do more?”

“Ten more.”

“Ten more?” 

At Anton’s level stare, Dele raised his hands up in surrender. “I’m doing it now, one...”

Okay, Dele found himself wishing for heel raises soon after, as he found himself stood on a balance ball on one foot, his other foot a bit higher, as if he were in the beginnings of doing a kick, but not really. His training top soaked wet through with effort, beads of sweat tickling at the tip of his nose. 

“What did you say this was again?” Dele panted the question, his forehead sheened with sweat- he’d have reached up to wipe it off, but his balance. He couldn’t trust his body right now -- he couldn’t risk it. 

“Proprioception and balance training,” Anton said too brightly, looking up from his clip pad, stopwatch in hand. “You’re doing really well.”

“Enough to -?” Dele began hopefully, but Anton quashed that hope in cold, brisk tones. 

“It isn’t worth my job. Or yours.” A quick look at his watch. “Hold the pose for a few more seconds.”

Each second stretched out like softened bubble gum. No watch, no distractions, and so had to go by Anton’s time. Dele felt the slight tremor in his leg, but - 

“Is it hurting?”

“N- n- no.”

“You’re almost there.”

“Ant-”

“Done. Ten minutes, and we go again.” 

Dele collapsed into a heap on the gym mat, hand over his face, blocking the light. His body half shivering in the aftermath, from his exertions. “Shattered,” he mumbled, gratefully grabbing at the towel which fell across his head and shoulders. “You’d think I wasn’t fit,” he grumbled, as he halfheartedly flexed his toes, and - nope. 

“You’re coming off an injury.”

Dele half raised his arm from his face, and peeked out from the corner of his eye.  
Eric- the guy from the office- Eric, he was sure, faced him, squatting on his haunches, with a bottle of water hanging from the tips of his fingers. 

“You’re not Anton,” Dele said stupidly, as he pushed himself to a seated position, automatically pulling his legs towards him until his ankle protested, and with a sigh, he adjusted his body so his ankle was comfortable. Dele took the bottle of water with a murmured ‘cheers’. 

“No, he’s popped out for a bit,” Eric answered. Like him, Eric was clad in Tottenham’s training togs, dark blue with light blue piping short sleeved top, and shorts. 

“To find new ways of torturing me, I bet.”

“Rehab. It’s been what, two games missed?”

“And six more to go.” Dele answered in the affirmative, before he took a gulp of water, swished it in his mouth feeling the weight and coolness of it, before swallowing. “You wouldn’t want to kidnap me and take me back to MK Dons, would you? No one would have to know. I’d give you money for petrol.”

Eric’s surprised half snort, half laugh was answer enough. “Poch’d kill us.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah. He’s all right, but he’s... He’s... Well.”

“A bit of the hairdryer?”

“Yeah,” Eric drawled. “It’s not often but... you wouldn’t want to be caught on his wrong side. You’ll find out soon enough. In preseason.”

“That’s-” Dele frowned, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “A ways away. Besides, after I get back, I’ve eight more games to play, at the very least.”

“Well,” Eric slapped his thighs, as he pushed himself to his feet. “I have to go, lunch is almost over.” 

Dele lifted up his bottle of water in salute. “Cheers for this, and-” he tugged at the towel around his neck and shoulders. “This.”

“No worries,” Eric waved it off. “Anyway, we have double training today, so...”

“You forgot something.”

A puzzled look, as Eric looked directly at him, then lowered his gaze to his hands, and then looked up. “What?”

Dele held out his hand. “A handshake. I noticed everyone doing it when they see each other first thing, and you didn’t shake my hand.”

“Oh.” 

Dele couldn’t help it, he laughed, because Eric seemed to be easily wound up. Eric held out his hand for a shake, and Dele half slapped at it, before doing a riff on one of those handshakes you did with the lads at training, because it was fun. Only for Eric’s hand not to move, his face half exasperated. 

“Fine,” Dele did the standard handshake they taught you at the academy. Not too firm, not too slack, with direct eye contact and a jolly greeting. “Hey, I’m Dele Alli, nice to meet you.”

Eric beetled his brows in suspicion, as if he expected to be butt of another joke. “Charmed, I imagine, I’m Eric Dier.”

“I-” 

“Time.” Anton called, and Dele’s groans weren’t as half dramatic as much as frustration. He knew why he was here at his now parent club, and rehabbing, but if he didn’t half feel right annoyed at everything right now.

But Eric had come by, with a towel and water, and although he was easy to wind up, he still showed up, and that was something.

***

Hugo Lloris was the personification of a captain, Eric thought. He spoke softly - unless screaming from the touchline- had a calm, almost regal demeanor. On the days when he got riled up though, he got cold, as icy as winds from a glacier in the alps when crossed.

The haphazard defense made him cross today. Normally resigned to shoring up a leaky defense, Hugo was usually stoic, an air of resignation gathering around him like a low pressure front. 

Not today though. 

“If it weren’t for ‘arry’s goals, I don’t know where we’d be now,” he muttered, as soon as he sat in his seat, and clicked his seat-belt in place. 

“Hugo,” Jan began, but Hugo raised his hand up as a gesture of silence, and Jan backed down, because when Hugo became like this, you left him alone. 

Today, they were on the coach cruising down the M40. Pochettino and the rest of his staff were up front, probably plotting a _coup_ on Levy’s transfer kitty, or at least planning to raid other teams for a new defense. 

Tugging his hoodie over his head, Eric turned his face towards the window. At least he got a lone seat. Normally, he’d have sat beside Coco or Christian, but he needed some time out to reflect. 

No, not reflect, rage. Because, that result against Liverpool had been one hundred percent industrial strength bullshit. Of all the times for Mario Balotelli’s damned mustache to find a goal in the back of their net. Just-- really?

“Hey,” said that familiar voice, with its’ over bitten enunciation. “Are you busy?”

“No,” Eric patted the seat beside him, and Harry sat down. His hair brushed back and still drying from the shower, even though they’d been on this coach for a while. 

“I wanted to thank you for dropping in on Alli. You didn’t have to, so thanks.”

“You’ve been busy,” Eric answered, and it was true. If Harry wasn’t outside training later than everyone save Coco, he was fielding interviews. Even though the club tried to walk the line between protecting him from the intrusive press looking for copy, and trying to make him the poster boy of their academy; it still ended up extra work for Harry. On top of that, Harry’s increased media presence made for increased publicity maneuvering. Thank goodness he was just a CB who moonlighted as a RB at turns, Eric thought. Forwards came with their own complications, especially if they turned out to be great like Harry Kane did. 

“Yeah, but so are you, eh?”

“I’m not ‘one of our own’,” Eric sing-songed, and even in the dim lights of the coach, the flush on Harry’s cheeks gave off enough fluorescence to read by. 

“Yeah... well. Mase is also academy, and scores goals.” 

Eric didn’t say a word, just laced his fingers across his stomach, his body in a comfortable slouch, waiting for Harry to say what he had to say. 

“I went to the gaffer and explained the situation with you getting roped in. We’re approaching the business end of the season, and --”

“It’s okay, really,” and _ooohnonononono, where did that come from?_ This was an excuse to opt out, to focus on _his_ own form and make sure he wasn’t shown the door, because he liked the League, and liked the club. 

Harry opened his mouth, but Harry’s mouth being open was well... a sort of default, like his hooded eyes and sweep of hair. 

“Okay. If you change your mind-”

“You and Mase are on speed dial.”

***

Grabbing his crutches, and setting off towards the door on a lope, Dele wanted to do a half whoop - his foot was on the bullet train to being mended, he could feel it. Wanted to do a 500 metre dash to show Anton, but Anton had his own ideas of targeted recovery, thank you very much. After almost three weeks here, he knew the relative lay of the land.

Dele stopped by the door of the gymnasium, half surprised that it was chucking it down, bringing enough rain to form mini pools in the grass and on the pavement. The ducks were an odd but nice touch, like stories he vaguely remembered being read to in reception, _Quack, quack, what luck!_ or something of the sort. 

Well, you really couldn’t spend your life waiting for the rain to pass - or at least- not in England. It rained all the time. 

Mentally, Dele reviewed the plan of Enfield campus in his head - and decided that he’d stop by the rec room. It wasn’t as far as the car-park, and it was early enough to hang around for an hour until his ride picked him up. 

***

“This is a joke,” Eric said, indignant, his eyes trained on the big screen TV in front of them. They had all the sports channels, and today, they were watching Sky. “Have you seen their form?”

“You’re still raging about the Liverpool result, then?” Luke shuffled the cards, gently tapping them against the table he was sitting at. 

“It’s ridiculous, and Chelsea-” Eric cut his diatribe at the knock at the door. Luke still sat there, perfecting his table riffle shuffle. Eric walked towards the door while finishing his point, “Just keep on winni- _Dele_ .”

“Hi,” Dele waved, his cap wet and shined by rain. “Can I come in for a bit? It’s chucking it down out there.”

Eric paused. Technically this area was for people on the first team, but Dele - well, he wasn’t U21s, and not really first team right now, but he was here for rehab and - this was really hard. 

“Come in,” he opened the door wider, for Dele to pass him by, his backpack a totally darker blue than it was originally due to the rain. 

“Hey,” Luke stood up, strode forward arm outstretched. Like Harry, Mace and Andros, Luke McGee was _another_ Tottenham Hotspur academy grad. “Luke McGee.”

“Dele Alli.”

“Nice to meet you, bad luck about the ankle.”

“Yeah,” Dele said, placing his crutches against the table before he shimmied off the straps of his knapsack. “It’s football.”

Luke laughed, “You sound like the gaffer.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. So, what’s your position?”

“Box to box...” Dele started, as he started to explain the positions he could play, and Eric turned the remote towards the TV, and paused it on the league table. He stared at it. At the end of the day, this is what they all lived and died by, the results on the league table. The goal difference was a joke, and right there, top four dancing out out of their reach.

“What you staring at, Dier?”

The voice seemed pretty near, as in, almost by his ear, and Eric jumped, half startled at being caught off guard. 

“Nothing.”

Dele stood there, eyes staring at the screen as if were an interesting tapestry in the National Portrait Gallery. “Looks like nothing,” he said after a minute, and Eric had to laugh in spite of himself. 

“You used to support Liverpool, right?”

Dele, to his credit, didn’t squirm. “Yeah, the family I stayed with were keen Liverpool supporters. Istanbul - Atatürk stadium, the whole lot. ” 

“And yet, you came here.”

“I like the gaffer. You look at Kane, Mason and Bentaleb and you think - there’s a chance, you know? There isn’t so much congestion in the midfield.”

“You might go out on loan,” Eric said, surprised at how mean he sounded, but Dele took that in stride. 

“I might, but I’m fighting to stay.” 

“Pochettino seems fair,” Luke said from his seat at the table, painstakingly constructing the beginnings of a castle made from cards. His hands as steady as a surgeon’s, he placed the cards at angles. “He does ask for a lot, but if you give him what he wants, it can only be good for you. You have a good chance, Dele.”

“Cheers for that, Luke," Dele's voice was warm with appreciation. "That’s all you can ask for, you know?”

“Shall I leave you two alone?” 

“Luke is building a house of cards. Besides,” Dele nudged him with his shoulder, and Eric felt his body half jostling in reaction, like a buoy bobbing on top a wave. “We were talking about the table.”

“You’re not on the first team.”

“Not here, no,” Dele raised an eyebrow. “But _I’m_ on a first team, mate.”

 _Touché_ , Eric thought for a bit, looked at Dele, found himself holding the stare for too long before turning to look at the league table, and the sorry state of it.

“Our goal defense is a mess.”

“You play the midfield in a pivot, right? Mason and Bentaleb.”

“More like turnstiles,” Eric muttered, _sotto vocci_ , and Dele looked at him, like _really_ looked at him. _What?_ Eric wanted to ask, and found himself really wanting to know what Dele thought, given his midfield position and all. 

 

**Chapter Three**

“Look ma, no hands.” Dele greeted, as he stopped in front of Eric’s table. They were in the lunchroom, everyone already seated and discussing the game that gone on before. Their comprehensive win over Burnley had been a restorative tonic after going out of the FA cup against Leicester. 

Eric leaned back in his chair. Dele again, clad in Spurs training togs, but the plain ones that they sold at the Spurs shop. No number, no name. Gone were the plain grey crutches that seemed a part of Dele like his eyes and hairstyle. 

“No crutches.”

“Nope,” Dele answered in the affirmative. 

“Too bad, you looked better with them.”

“Ah, I know some people find the slouch attractive, never took you for one of those, myself.”

“Oh my God,” Eric shook his head, half groaning at the joke. “Have a seat. Not unless you want to stare at me eating while standing. Just- no.”

Dele sat down, and Eric looked down at his plate. Salmon, vegetables and a fruit pot on the side. If you went by the food plans, someone decided that Eric needed to live dangerously today. 

“I leave tomorrow,” Dele said, as he perched at the edge of the chair. “Got the all clear.”

“Oh, right.” Eric said, half surprised, because he’d gotten used to Dele over the weeks he had been here.

“Yeah, oh. I can’t wait to get back- and then come back here, of course. But I have a job to do there, first.”

“A job.”

“ _Promotion_ ,” Dele’s eyes lit up. “I do that, and that’s a job well done, I think.”

“ Championship.”

“Yeah, I mean, League One is nothing like the Premier League - not that I’ve played in the PL as yet! But I like it, and I owe it to my coach.”

“And you’re back for preseason.”

“Yeah. Anyway,” Dele lightly tapped the edge of the table with his fingers. “I don’t know if I’ll speak to you again after I meet up with Pochettino, but -”

“I’ll tell Luke goodbye.”

Dele shook his head, waving Eric’s comment away. “Nah, mate, I can do that. I just wanted to say thanks. I know you’re on the first team, and had many things to be going with, but you looked out for me, so thanks.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure when you rock up in preseason, you’ll be gunning for your chance in the first team.”

“Yeah.”

“If and when you do, I’ll be here. You can show what you’re about then.”

Dele rolled his shoulders with supreme nonchalance. Not for the first time, Eric wondered _how_ good he was, because the English press had a tendency to exaggerate. 

“You forgot something.”

“Dele...”

“Honestly, just a handshake!” Dele held out his hand. Eric shook it, and before they broke the handshake, Eric pressed Dele's hand against the table's surface, using the leverage of surprise to lean over and hiss, “You supported Liverpool, really? They’re absolute _wank_ right now.”

“Gerrard.”

“Oh ho, ho, ho, this is going to be good.” 

“He hates losing. You can’t help but rate a footballer that hates losing. A lot of footballers don’t mind it as much as they should. And they should.”

That made sense, Eric had to admit. There were a few guys on the team who fell into that line of thinking, which did no one any good. Fair play. “I hope you don’t lose.” Eric let Dele’s hand go after two beats. “I hope you get promoted.”

“We will.” Dele said, and Eric couldn’t decide if Dele was either complacent or confident. But that was what the coming preseason was for, to find out. 

“And-” Dele started before his leg started to buzz, and he whipped his iphone out of his track suit pocket, thumbed the screen and read the message there. “Karl’s here, gotta dash.” He nodded, as he slung the backpack on his shoulder, pushed himself from the table and started to lope off, only to turn back and waved; a quick, cheerful, flappy child’s wave. 

After a moment of thinking, Eric waved back. 

End. 

 

**notes**

  * MK Dons used to be Wimbledon Dons, but due to some shenanigans by the FA, the club migrated to Milton Kenyes (a suburb outside of London), leaving Wimbledon without a football club. Wimbledon formed one in its wake called AFC Wimbledon. To read more about it, and John Green’s involvement in the later [ here about Green’s involvement with AFC](https://medium.com/@johngreen/the-greatest-sports-story-never-told-c9039e82967e#.4nxqstg1o). This reddit article has a [good overview of the issues behind MK Dons and why people hate the club](https://www.reddit.com/r/soccer/comments/2ewkif/why_is_mk_dons_so_hated_in_the_uk/). The wiki overview is [here](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Relocation_of_Wimbledon_F.C._to_Milton_Keynes). Dele Alli is the first graduate from MK Dons to get this far . A good mini documentary on MK Dons is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Anu0yyrhQzs)
  * Dele Alli was bought by Tottenham in 2014 for the 2015/16 season. He got a knock in Feb, 2015, and because he was a Tottenham player, he was sent to his club for rehab. Due to him not really being a first team player, he wouldn’t have had much integration with the first team, but word has it that Pochettino does like his players in rehab to be visited by his first team players (Vertonghen has spoken about this in passing) so that they don’t feel left out. The players would have known about Alli, but not really be around, because Tottenham Hotspur were in four different competitions until March 2015. 
  * Dele Alli grew up being a fan of LFC. According to him, the family he stayed with (a lot of academy lads do sometimes stay with ‘host families’ near to the club that they play at, although Alli’s story is a bit more complicated than most) were Liverpool fans. He was a fan of Gerrard, and how Liverpool dropped the ball on his transfer when he wanted to be a part of the club is still annoying. But Pochettino and the Spurs set up is the right one for the lad, tbh. He’s thriving. 




End file.
